The Betrayals(35)

He didn’t exactly say he’d forgiven me. But it was enough.

Forty-second day of Serotine Term

(I went back and counted)

Sunday today, thank goodness. And the Magister Cartae forgot to give us any prep (presumably because senile dementia is setting in, but I’m not complaining) so I have hours and hours of free time. Well, hour and hour. Hurrah.

I ought to write to Mim. I’ve got five unanswered letters sitting on my desk. The last one I haven’t even read yet. If I don’t reply soon, when I go home at the end of term she’ll say something very gentle like, ‘I was so afraid you were ill, darling,’ and wave me off with a brave, bewildered smile if I try to explain. (Honestly, if something was wrong with me they’d tell her. It’s a school, not a prison camp.) Then again, unless I dash off five long letters and backdate them, she’ll do that anyway.

Someone’s knocking. I hope it’s Carfax, I’m waiting for him to get back to me about the middle movement of Danse Macabre. It’s infuriating, he must know I’m anxious to get that motif sorted. We’ve got another four weeks, but that’s not as long as it sounds. Every second he wastes feels like an eternity.

Later

He liked it! Maybe he’s not such a toad after all.

What am I saying? Obviously he’s a toad. Five seconds after saying, ‘I think this has definite possibilities,’ he was explaining all the corrections he’d written on it (in Artemonian, naturally). He was sitting at his desk, his head bent over the bit of paper, scratching tinier and tinier hieroglyphics in the margins, talking so quickly I lost track of what he was saying. I stared at his hand on the paper, and the veins running across the knuckles. Then he looked up. ‘Hey, Martin,’ he said. ‘Are you listening?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘What did I say?’

I was going to bluff but I couldn’t think of anything. It wasn’t just that I was annoyed. There was something about the light – late afternoon light turning gold – and the shape of his profile. It was like a painting. The bones of his neck, the line of shadow under his collar. I had a crazy impulse to put my palm on the lowest vertebra to feel the heat of his skin. At least it might have made him shut up, even for a few seconds …

‘I’m … surprised you like it,’ I said.

His mouth twitched. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘so am I, to be honest.’

I had to walk over to the window and look out, turning my back on him. I didn’t trust myself. Ugh, he is so exasperating.

It’s ridiculous that I feel euphoric because some inbred, supercilious bastard thinks my move has possibilities. Get hold of yourself, Martin.

Even later

I went down to the Lesser Hall with Emile and Jacob, to play a few bouts, but my mind wasn’t on it and I lost. Fencing is a stupid sport, anyway, wish we could have punchbags instead. After a while I sat down on the bench and watched the others. Even then I couldn’t concentrate. I watched the sky darken through the windows, feeling light-headed, sort of dizzy and breathless. I’ve never had a problem with the altitude, but suddenly I could feel how high up we are, how thin the air is. My heart seemed louder than usual, too. It wasn’t exactly bad, just odd. I haven’t been sleeping well recently, so it’s probably that. Or I’m coming down with something.

Forty-fourth day of Serotine Term

This afternoon we only had maths and meditation, so Carfax and I decided to spend the rest of the day in the library. The middle movement is pretty much complete, or at least as complete as it can be before we go back for another look, and we’re trying to work out how to fit the algorithm and the tune together. We sat there in silence for half an hour, both of us making notes, but I wasn’t getting anywhere and I don’t think Carfax was either. I found myself staring into the middle distance, and then realised I was staring at him. He looked pretty exhausted, actually – pale, red-eyed, chapped lips – and I put my pen down and said, ‘Are you all right?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’ I don’t want him to get ill; if he went under now, I don’t know what would happen to our game. The thought of having to finish it on my own brings me out in a cold sweat.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, after a moment.

‘You look terrible.’

He gave a twitchy shrug. ‘I had some news. My … a family matter.’

I opened my mouth to ask whether someone had escaped from the lunatic asylum. Then I shut it again; but I saw him notice. He gathered his stuff together and stood up. I said, ‘Where’re you going?’

‘What’s it to you?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘What’s up? You can’t take offence at something I didn’t say—’

‘I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to pretend.’

‘Really? So what am I thinking?’

He hesitated. Then he shut his mouth again and walked away. I started to go after him, but then I remembered my notes – if I lost my notebook, I’d be scuppered – and went back for them; so by the time I got outside he was already disappearing into the Square Tower. I called his name, but either he didn’t hear or he was ignoring me. I sprinted across the courtyard, slipped on the tiles and cannoned into Felix emerging from the doorway. He said something to me, laughing, but I pushed him aside and climbed up the stairs two at a time.